


third reich oneshots

by alfred_rosenberg



Category: Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: and none of it is connected, there's gonna be like 10 chapters of this i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfred_rosenberg/pseuds/alfred_rosenberg
Summary: a dump all of my short reich stuff.
Relationships: Alfred Rosenberg/Joachim von Ribbentrop, Julius Streicher/Robert Ley, there’s others too i’m just too lazy to tag everything
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. ribbentrop giving unsolicited fashion advice

“Herr Rosenberg!” someone calls from behind the Reichsleiter. Rosenberg turns sharply to see Ribbentrop walking towards him briskly, a cheery smile on his face. Rosenberg groans internally— it’s no secret that he thinks the Foreign Minister is a bit of an idiot, to put it lightly, and the last thing he wants to do right now is have a conversation with him.

“Herr Ribbentrop,” Rosenberg says, mustering a smile. “How surprising to see you here.” Ribbentrop extends his hand and Rosenberg takes it, lightly shaking it once before letting go.

“I was here on some business for the Führer and then I saw you,” Ribbentrop says. “I thought I’d say hello. We don’t talk very often.”

Why do you think that is? Rosenberg thinks, but outwardly maintains his smile. “Well, it’s nice to see you here.”

“Indeed. How about we go somewhere for a drink to catch up? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Well, I don’t quite have the time—“ Rosenberg starts, but before he can finish, Ribbentrop is already walking down the street, chatting about some cafe he likes. Rosenberg sighs, and a moment later he’s hurrying after him.

A few minutes later, they’re seated in a cafe down the street (Ribbentrop orders a coffee while Rosenberg requests just water). “It’s a lovely cafe, isn’t it?” Ribbentrop smiles. Rosenberg nods, fidgeting with his hands awkwardly. He isn’t social at the best of times, and having Ribbentrop unexpectedly take him here has him far out of his element. “Oh, right. Let’s get to the point, since you said you don’t have much time.” He aims a finger towards Rosenberg’s shirt collar. “Do you like that tie?”

“My tie?” Rosenberg asks, taken aback. His hand unconsciously reaches up to fidget with the knot. It’s a striped tie, one he’s had for a while, and he’s fond of it in the way people are fond of clothing they’ve worn many times. “Yes, I like it. Why?”

“Herr Rosenberg, I must tell you this as your fellow Party member: your tie is terrible.” Ribbentrop’s face is solemn, a genuine show of regret and sympathy. “The pattern and colors… it simply doesn’t work.”

Rosenberg flushes. Hardly a man used to getting harsh fashion criticism, he doesn’t know what to say. “I— well, I um—“

“I assume you have many other better ties, but you seem to wear that one in particular a lot. Too much, even.” Ribbentrop sighs, as if he’s delivering terrible news. “My advice to you, dear Herr Rosenberg, is to throw it in the bin. It doesn’t do any good for your image.” 

“My image—?” Rosenberg blinks. He’s acutely aware of the fact that his face is hot. “I mean… I suppose I could throw it out…” Ribbentrop seems so genuinely concerned for him that Rosenberg can’t seem to refuse. 

“Excellent.” A bright smile appears on the Foreign Minister’s face, making Rosenberg blush even more. “If you straighten out your ties, you’ll be much more handsome.”

Much more what?! Rosenberg thinks, but before he can say anything, Ribbentrop throws a few Reichsmarks on the table and walks out with a soft goodbye. 

Rosenberg sits at the table alone. For once in his life, he’s unable to think clearly— and it’s because of that idiotic Foreign Minister, who had the gall to waltz Rosenberg to some cafe on his precious free time and then call him handsome! Who did he think he was calling Rosenberg handsome? 

A waiter comes over and politely asks if Rosenberg would like anything else, to which he replies a curt “no” and hurries out. He has a couple of hours before he needs to get back to work, and there’s a shop down the street that has very nice ties.


	2. flowers

It’s the Nuremberg Rally again. Ribbentrop doesn’t mind it, but it has a tendency to drag on for too long. It’s unfortunate, because he usually likes a good party. 

The speeches are the worst part. They can drag on for hours, especially with the Führer. Today, however, Rosenberg is speaking, and Ribbentrop watches with great interest for no reason in particular. The Reichsleiter speaks well; although he’s clearly nervous, his speech is well-written (as expected from the man who wrote The Myth) and his delivery is good. He speaks about the early struggle in the NSDAP, and although Ribbentrop knows nothing about it, he’s moved all the same. 

After the speeches are done, Ribbentrop wanders around the gathering of various high-level officials. He has a bouquet in his hand from some person, and he doesn’t quite have the heart to get rid of it. The flowers are pretty and neatly arranged, and he wonders where in his house he should put it.

He spots Rosenberg in the crowd, and figures he might as well congratulate him. Although Rosenberg has been less-than-friendly towards the Foreign Minister, Ribbentrop wants to talk anyways. “Reichsleiter Rosenberg!” he calls, and the man turns to look at him. His nerves from the speech are clearly still wearing off, and his face is slightly flushed. It’s cute, Ribbentrop thinks.

“Minister Ribbentrop,” Rosenberg says. He smiles, but it’s obvious to Ribbentrop that it’s at least somewhat forced. He probably hoped for the Führer to congratulate him instead, but Ribbentrop isn't exactly sad to disappoint him. 

“I wanted to congratulate you for your speech,” Ribbentrop explains. “I was greatly moved by it. You really are an excellent writer.” Rosenberg flushes even more at the unexpected praise. Even if he hates him, Ribbentrop supposes, he can’t refuse a compliment.

“Thank you,” Rosenberg stutters. He’s so socially awkward that it’s adorable. Ribbentrop grins. Rosenberg can be cold and aloof to many, him in particular, but he honestly doesn’t understand why. Perhaps it’s something he, a well-socially-adjusted person, can’t get.

Regardless, though, it’s sort of fun to tease Rosenberg (in a nice way, of course). Suddenly Ribbentrop remembers the bouquet in his hand, and he brings it up. “This is for you.” It wasn’t intended for him, sure, but Rosenberg deserves flowers after that speech. Plus, Ribbentrop just wants to give him a bouquet.

Rosenberg freezes for a split second, and for the briefest moment it seems like he isn’t going to take it. But then he does. He looks at the flowers with a strange expression, as if Ribbentrop had just handed him something much more significant. He wonders if Rosenberg thinks the flowers are as pretty as he does. Well, he must; he's a philosopher, after all.

“Thank you,” Rosenberg says. He doesn’t really seem like he knows what to do with Ribbentrop’s gift, so it hangs stiffly from his arm by his side. Someone calls Ribbentrop’s name, and he says goodbye with a smile before hurrying off, leaving Rosenberg with his gift and another reason for his face to be flushed.


	3. christmas

It’s the Führer’s annual Christmas party, and the rooms are filled with typical holiday cheer. It’s bright and merry and filled with laughter, and various government and military officials talk and joke around, imbued with the Christmas spirit (and some alcohol). 

Except for Ribbentrop. He’s been coerced into talking with Rosenberg by virtue of them somehow being the only people not occupied with another group, thus sticking them together in a kind of mutual social bond. He’s hardly the person Ribbentrop came to the party expecting to talk to, but he doesn’t mind.

Except for one thing. Rosenberg isn’t a boring person, but he has an unfortunate tendency to rattle on about boring topics Ribbentrop has no interest in. It’s alright to be the man who wrote The Myth, but he always seems to insist on re-explaining the entire book to anyone unlucky enough to end up having a conversation with him for more than five minutes. 

They’ve kind of drifted off into the doorway of another room, separate from the main party. There’s no one else around and so Rosenberg animatedly explains religions of the blood and racial order, intent on describing every single detail of his thoughts. Ribbentrop drinks his champagne and nods and inwardly wishes he was drunk enough to care.

As his gaze drifts around aimlessly, he happens to spot something green on the door frame above them. It’s mistletoe, probably put there by someone hoping to sneak a kiss from some Party official’s pretty blonde wife. Ribbentrop thinks nothing of it at first, but after a moment he realizes there is a way to get Rosenberg to stop talking about this. 

Rosenberg pauses his monologue and looks at him, waiting for some reaction of agreement. He’s so earnestly interested in telling Ribbentrop about his philosophy that Ribbentrop can’t bear to tell him he simply doesn’t care, so he points to the mistletoe above them. “Do you know what that means?” he asks.

Rosenberg looks up and an expression of understanding slowly creeps over his face. He doesn’t move away, though, and he looks at Ribbentrop with a sort of awkward expression on his face, as if he doesn’t know what he should do. It’s cute to see him so out of his element after he was just confidently explaining his ideology, and Ribbentrop smiles. 

He figures he might as well do it at this point, so he puts his hands on Rosenberg’s shoulders and kisses him. Rosenberg is kind of stiff and unresponsive, and it’s clear that he doesn’t kiss anyone that much, let alone another man at a party, but he doesn’t push Ribbentrop away, and after a second Rosenberg slowly relaxes under his touch.

Ribbentrop breaks away after a moment, and Rosenberg clears his throat, blushing bright red. “Why did you do that?” he asks, and it’s not an accusatory question, just genuinely curious. It’s sweet how he can somehow still be so oblivious, and Ribbentrop supposes that’s a good thing.

Ribbentrop smiles again. “It’s a Christmas gift from me to you,” he says, only half sarcastically, but Rosenberg smiles back. He’s forgotten about explaining The Myth for now and while that is nice, somehow that kiss under the mistletoe was nicer.


	4. rosenberg being a horse girl

Ribbentrop is being annoying again, making Rosenberg sigh and cross his arms in front of him. He’s telling people about his experiences in the war, and while Rosenberg respects every soldier who fought for Germany, Ribbentrop has a very self-important way of telling his stories (at least to Rosenberg, a man who never talks about himself). 

“And then, you know,” Ribbentrop is saying to the little group they're in, “I was a Hussar. It was tiring to be riding horses every day like that, but…”

The mention of horses makes Rosenberg perk up. He likes horses, he always has; ever since his childhood, their remarkable loyalty and steadfastness have always struck him as something commendable, although he doesn't have any pronounced affection for animals the way someone like Hitler does. He doesn't ride them himself, of course, but he sort of admires those who do. Riding a horse can make anyone look… _good_ to him (not that he'd ever admit that to anyone, because it's embarrassing).

“You were a Hussar?” he asks, in spite of himself. There's a reluctant interest in him now that Ribbentrop mentioned that, and although he couldn't care less about Ribbentrop's war stories, he does want to know if he actually rode a horse.

“Yes,” Ribbentrop answers, seeming pleased that Rosenberg asked him about it. “When I enlisted they asked if I could ride a horse and I said yes, of course I could, so they sent me out. It was difficult at first, but after a while it got enjoyable, and…”

He rambles on, but Rosenberg isn’t listening. His mind wanders; _Ribbentrop on a horse_ , he thinks. It isn’t a bad picture, really. Maybe he’d be in uniform, too, and perhaps he’d smile down at Rosenberg standing there, and he’d even offer his hand to him, like a prince, and then they'd— 

He's suddenly aware that Ribbentrop has stopped talking and is looking at him, waiting for a reply. He nods and says something like “that’s interesting”, and then Ribbentrop moves on to the next topic, oblivious to the thoughts his innocuous war story created in Rosenberg's imagination.

Rosenberg’s mind goes back to that image of Ribbentrop on a horse. It’s pleasant to think about, and maybe Ribbentrop would even look kind of handsome (not that Rosenberg would ever _think_ he was handsome, but…). However, thinking about this stuff makes him feel awfully like a young girl dreaming about a knight on horseback, and he blushes from both the embarrassment of thinking like that and the thought of Ribbentrop being like that. 

Eventually the group they're in breaks up, and Ribbentrop goes off somewhere else to talk about other things Rosenberg assumes he knows nothing about. He's half-annoyed with himself for thinking that Ribbentrop would look good like that, and half-annoyed with Ribbentrop for even bringing it up in the first place and making him think about it, but Rosenberg still wishes he could see him ride a horse. Totally not because he thinks he'd be handsome or anything, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the shortest fic i've ever written in my life omg :brokenheart: but rosenberg liking horses is so funny to me


	5. the only nuremberg (2000) fic in existence

After Tex brings Göring back to his cell after the verdicts, he shuts the heavy door and turns towards the prisoner, a forlorn look on his face.

“What is the matter, my dear Tex? Did I not tell you that there is a special place for me in Valhalla?” Göring says, grinning.

In spite of the former Reichsmarshall’s jesting, Tex is still sad. While he had, in the back of his mind, known there would be no other conviction for Göring than hanging at this point, he had still hoped in spite of it all that it would… 

“I don’t know,” Tex says, quietly. “I just hoped it would turn out differently.”

Göring looks at him for a moment, and there’s a great deal of sympathy in his eyes. It makes Tex realizes what Göring knew from the start: the trial would have certainly ended like this either way.

He reaches into his uniform and pulls out a gold pocketwatch, extending it towards Tex. “Go on, take it. Where I’m going, I’ll need to travel light.” It’s a rather lame attempt at a dark joke, but it makes Tex smile in spite of himself. Göring has a remarkable ability to always make the American feel better, despite him being a former enemy.

“It’s inscribed with my initials, see?” Göring continues, almost childishly proud of the trinket, even now. “Think of me whenever you see it, will you, my dear Tex?” Tex flushes and takes it. It’s a beautiful watch, and it glitters in the dull light of the cell.

The fact that this is their last conversation doesn’t seem real. Tex knows he should, by all rights, hate Göring; the man was in one of the highest positions in a government that caused another world war and a genocide. But he can’t bring himself to. Göring is funny and kind and he _listens_ to Tex when he tells him about Texas and Christmas and his life in America. And Göring tells him about hunting and Hitler and his life as if Tex was his friend ( _are they friends? They shouldn’t be, but…_ ). He doesn’t make Tex feel like he’s just another nameless soldier in a foreign country, he makes him feel like he matters. Like Tex is a person worth knowing. 

He rubs his thumb over the engraved letters of Göring’s initials on the watch. It’s an oddly soothing feeling, along with the steady weight of it in his hand, and although Tex knows some people out there would pay him a lot of money for it, he’ll never sell it. Because Göring gave it to him.

“All of my valuables are in a suitcase in the baggage room,” Göring continues quietly. “Could you get it for me?”

“Of course, sir,” Tex says. In a corner of his mind, he realizes that this means he’ll never see Göring again. He desperately doesn’t want that to happen. It feels wrong to him— Göring has given Tex so many things, his own possessions and stories, and what has Tex given him in return? (Tex knows that if he asked, Göring would reply “your friendship, my dear Tex,” with a smile. For some reason, that hurts.)

It feels stupid, but when Tex thinks about it, he knows there _is_ one way he can show his gratitude. Although it definitely is against prison guidelines, this is the last time they’ll see each other, so who cares, right?

If he hesitates any longer, he won’t do it, so Tex steps forward, puts his hands on Göring’s shoulders, and kisses him. Although Tex half-expects Göring to push him away, he doesn’t. Göring is surprised, he can tell, but he doesn’t reject him, and that’s all that matters to Tex.

After a moment, Tex breaks away, and for some reason, he can’t make himself look at Göring. “I’ll get you your stuff,” he says, and quickly turns to the door. He feels like he’s about to cry, and at the very least he wants to spare Göring from seeing that.

It’s quiet in the hallway now, and Tex hurries down the hallway towards where the prisoners’ baggage is before any of his fellow guards can ask what’s wrong. He can feel the weight of Göring’s watch in his pocket, heavy yet comforting, and it feels like it’ll be in his heart forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the nuremberg (2000) series sucks so much but tex and göring are so cute
> 
> also it has streicher eating bread during court


	6. streicher x ley

It's late at night, and Streicher is tired and irritated for no good reason. It's kind of annoying, and he stops in front of a bar on the street pensively. Although it's late and he knows he should be getting home, he doesn't really care, and as he walks in he figures he might as well do something to get himself out of his bad mood.

To his surprise (or not, considering the man’s reputation), he sees Ley sitting there, a half-empty glass in front of him. When he sees Streicher, he raises a hand in greeting, a slightly intoxicated grin appearing on his face. It’s charming, in an odd way. “Herr Streicher,” he calls. “Come sit with me.” 

While Ley is generally regarded as a no-good drunk by many in the NSDAP, Streicher has always liked him for almost no reason in particular. They aren’t close, but he sees Ley as a good comrade, dedicated to the Party and its cause, and although he often hears complaints about him, people complain about Streicher too, and thus he doesn’t put much stock in the rumors. Truthfully he’s happy to see him here, and so Streicher goes and sits next to him, throwing his overcoat on the chair next to them.

"How are you?” Ley asks, pouring a glass of whatever he’s having and placing it in front of Streicher without asking if he wants it or not. His speech is slightly slurred and lacking its usual stutter, and it’s obvious that he’s been here for a good amount of time before this.

“Typical bullshit in the office,” Streicher says curtly, taking a sip of his drink. It’s strong enough to make him wince, the bitter taste burning his mouth and throat, and he wonders if Ley drinks this every day. He probably does.

“That’s unfortunate,” Ley says sympathetically, and Streicher can tell that he actually means it. He pauses for a moment, and then continues, looking at him seriously. “Streicher, I know we’re not close, but I appreciate you liking me.” The topic change is sudden and unexpected, giving Streicher a start that makes him turn to look at Ley with slight suspicion and heavy surprise, but it seems like he’s just being honest, albeit in a drunk way. 

“Who says I like you?” Streicher asks, bemused. While he _does_ like him, Streicher never makes it obvious; they don’t speak often, and when they do it’s usually about Party business or their respective newspapers, things commonplace enough to warrant no deeper connection between them. 

“I’ve read your newspaper,” Ley says. “You always mention me favorably.” That is true, although Streicher doesn’t often run stories mentioning Ley. (That means that Ley must regularly read Der Stürmer, though, which is flattering.)

“I suppose I do,” Streicher admits. Somehow he’s glad that Ley is drunk right now; it makes the conversation less awkward knowing that he probably won’t remember it tomorrow.

“Have another,” Ley offers, pouring another glass, and Streicher does, ignoring the bad feeling it gives his mouth before pouring himself more, because it's the reason he even came here in the first place. After a few minutes he starts to feel pleasantly fuzzy, the troubles of the day far away from him now ( _that alcohol must be awfully strong_ , he thinks), and it’s just him and Ley at the bar. 

“Do you want to know something?” he asks after a little while and several more drinks, and Ley nods, looking at him expectantly. “Sometimes I hear people complain about you— Goebbels, Göring, those types.” He pauses, trying to make sense of his thoughts. “But I tell myself, well, I know who Ley _really_ is, and he’s a good person.” To be honest, Streicher has no idea where he’s going with this, and he places his hand over Ley’s on the counter to convey the genuineness of his words. “That’s why I always mention you favorably.” It’s not as if it’s a love confession, but he still blushes after saying it, hardly a man used to talking about his feelings. 

“Is that true?” Ley says, seeming surprised. When Streicher nods, he smiles again, his crooked grin snaking across his face. “So you like me _that_ much?” 

Streicher would usually want to hit anyone who’s brave enough to talk back to him like that, but Ley’s smile is kind of endearing ( _maybe even cute_ , his mind thinks disjointedly) and he’s a little too drunk to care, so he doesn’t. “So what if I do?” he grumbles in response instead, annoyed that he’s being made fun of and also suddenly aware of the fact that his hand still rests on top of Ley’s on the countertop. 

“I like it,” Ley murmurs, an earnest look on his face, and then, before Streicher has time to react, he leans in and kisses him. This is _really_ something that Streicher would want to hit anyone else for doing now, but once again he can’t make himself for some strange reason, and he doesn’t move away. It’s not unpleasant, really— it’s actually kind of nice, although they’re both sloppy and drunk and Ley is pressing his mouth against Streicher’s a little too hard, making him furrow his brow and close his eyes, and it just feels right in the moment. He can taste the alcohol on Ley’s lips, the usually sharp taste muted and softened and almost sweetened, and even though it’s a mostly-innocent kiss he dumbly wonders for a split-second why this is happening at all and why he even _likes_ it, but then his mind empties and he can’t think of anything else at all. It lasts for just long enough before Ley breaks away and Streicher sits back, running his tongue over his lips. Ley flushes again at that, fiddling with his glass.

“That was something, wasn't it?” he asks, and Streicher laughs in response, perhaps at the absurdity of the whole situation or maybe just because things like this seem awfully funny when he’s drunk.

——

The next morning, sunlight filters through the cloudy windows, and Streicher groans and opens his eyes blearily. His head hurts and he wonders why until he realizes that he’d fallen asleep at the bar with Ley last night, having understandably given up on the idea of going home. And speaking of Ley, he’s slumped against Streicher’s side, his head resting on his shoulder, and Streicher is leaning against him, too. Considering what happened last night he supposes he doesn’t mind _that_ much, and he purposefully doesn’t move so that he won’t wake him up, although he’d shake anyone else off of him. 

Ley shifts beside him and sits up, and they look at each other for a moment before he blushes and smooths down his clothes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to… do that last night.”

“It’s alright,” Streicher says. “I don’t mind.” He doesn’t, to be honest, though they both already know they won’t talk about what happened again, and it's slightly awkward as they both gather their things and leave without saying anything else. As they part on the street he grins back at him, and Ley raises his hand, and then they're both gone. Streicher supposes that the whole thing did get him out of his bad mood, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5n2_96F7RQ
> 
> ^ very inspiring video


	7. i don't know what to title this

Ley is arguing with Rosenberg again. They always seem to end up disagreeing, to the point where it almost feels natural, but today it bothers Rosenberg more than it should. Ley never agrees with him, even though Rosenberg knows he's correct, and he always insists on doing everything _his_ way, and Ley's ideas usually aren't very good in the first place. 

So when Ley finishes his long-winded defense of his methods at their meeting, and when it's too late for them to continue arguing anymore, Rosenberg stands up. “It’s obvious that you don’t understand any of this,” he snaps, annoyed at Ley’s lack of cooperation. “If you had more sense, you’d realize that I’m right, but of course you can’t. The Reich doesn’t revolve around you and your—"

Something like disdain flickers across Ley's face as he says that, and then he walks up to him as he’s talking and grabs his shirt collar, pushing him a little too forcefully against the wall almost before Rosenberg realizes what’s happening. He winces— Ley is _strong_ , despite his smaller stature, and of course now he realizes that Ley had started too many fights back in the day to not be. Ley doesn’t let go, bunching the fabric in his hand, and he leans in very close. 

“What don’t I understand, Rosenberg?” he asks. His breath smells like alcohol, and Rosenberg feels it against his face, soft and warm. “Tell me.”

Rosenberg opens his mouth, but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say to alleviate the tension, if there even is anything he can say in the first place, and he feels Ley’s knuckles pressing against his collarbone through his shirt. It hurts, but not in a totally bad way. 

“I… I don’t…” he finally manages to say, more quietly than he’d like.

Ley snorts in front of him. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand anything, you know,” he says, locking eyes with him. Ley’s eyes are blue, a soft blue, and Rosenberg opens his mouth again, stupidly, to say something else more placating, but before he can Ley reaches up and kisses him suddenly. 

Rosenberg puts his hands up against Ley’s chest, either to push him away or brace himself, but he doesn’t do either. Maybe it’s the sudden shock of it all, or the fact that Rosenberg really can’t do much right now anyway, or something else that he doesn’t want to admit (which would be that this isn’t _completely_ awful), but he stays still and takes it. It’s not exactly the most romantic thing in the world; Ley is practically pressing him back into the wall, and when Rosenberg shows a sign of trying to get away he bites down on his lip hard enough to make him make a noise in the back of his throat. But Ley tastes like alcohol and tobacco, and the combination of that on Rosenberg’s tongue is bitter but not unpleasant, in an odd way. 

It doesn’t last long, though, and after a moment that feels both far too long and like nothing at all Ley lets him go, stepping back to look at him again. “That,” he says, aiming a half-accusatory finger at Rosenberg’s chest, as if to prove his point, “is what you’ll never understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kings of having permanent latent tension between them also this is short as hell once again but whatever


End file.
